


A Matter of Truth

by Just_Rocket_Science



Category: To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Tom Robinson's Trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Rocket_Science/pseuds/Just_Rocket_Science
Summary: An exact rewrite of Tom Robinson's trial, but from Atticus' point of view.The dialogue is copied from the original book
Kudos: 7





	A Matter of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This was a short project I worked on, thank you to Hokkaido_Pumpkin for beta reading!

“It was the night of November twenty-first. I was just leaving my office when B- Mr. Ewell came in, very excited he was, and said get out to his house quick, some nigger’d raped his girl.” Mr. Heck Tate said, eyes trained on his feet with respect to the sensitive topic.  
“Did you go?” Mr. Gilmer, the prosecutor, questioned.  
“Certainly. Got in the car and went out as fast as I could.”  
“And what did you find?”  
“Found her lying on the floor in the middle of the front room, one on the right as you go in. She was pretty well beat up, but I heaved her to her feet and she washed her face in a bucket in the corner and said she was all right. I asked her who hurt her and she said it was Tom Robinson-” Judge Taylor glanced up at me from his fingernails that he had been occupied with cleaning, but I stood stock-still. If he was expecting an objection, he got none.   
“-asked her if he beat her like that, she said yes he had. Asked her if he took advantage of her and she said yes he did. So I went down to Robinson’s house and brought him back. She identified him as the one, so I took him in. That’s all there was to it.”  
“Thank you,” said Gilmer.  
Judge Taylor asked me, “Any questions, Atticus?”   
“Yes,” I replied, my tone passive. I guessed, correctly, that Heck was not a part of the lies. Yet I believed that he may still be able to supply a not insignificant contribution to my case. I leaned back in my chair, legs crossed languidly; I was of the opinion that a more relaxed demeanor did wonders in encouraging the more open and friendly attitude that I firmly believed all courts should strive for. Not only for practical purposes, but also out of simple human empathy to the poor witness being bombarded with questions, or the defendant being tried perhaps for his life. Mr. Gilmer did not agree with me, however, I supposed that we were all entitled to our opinions. At least as long as those opinions did not have a death toll.  
“Did you call a doctor, Sheriff? Did anybody call a doctor?” I began the questioning. It was important in court to never ask a question you already did not know the answer to, in fear of an incongruous answer felling your entire case. Now, as I expected, Heck replied with,   
“No sir.”   
“Didn’t call a doctor?  
“No sir.” His face was pinched, tense with unease.   
“Why not?” Despite my friendly bearing, I allowed a soft edge to slip into my voice, the inflection in my otherwise smooth tone drawing the jury’s attention to Heck’s answer.  
“Well I can tell you why I didn’t. It wasn’t necessary, Mr. Finch. She was mighty banged up. Something sho’ happened, it was obvious.” As I had expected, it was a barely satisfactory answer, yet the jury would accept it purely because the man he was accusing was a negroe, and Heck was not.   
“But you didn’t call a doctor? While you were there did anyone send for one, fetch one, carry her to one?” I made sure to ensure that the answer to my question was repeated several times, in defense against any members of the jury who might’ve suddenly developed a brief case of deafness.  
“No sir-”  
Judge Taylor interrupted, “He’s answered the question three times, Atticus. He didn’t call a doctor.”  
“I just wanted to make sure, Judge.” He smiled at me, knowing the direction in which I was headed. Despite what others might think, he was a fine judge, and a man I both respected and admired. Heck visibly relaxed at his intervention.  
As the fact that no one had called a doctor was an important factor in the claim I wished to make, and in getting the Judge to repeat the statement I had made sure that everyone had heard it clearly. If one overlooked the suspicion of negroes prevalent in the general public, their thoughts must surely be leaning in the same direction as mine. Now all I required was to give them a nudge forward. Once the public was convinced, it was a small step from there to convince the Jury.   
I loosened my posture, meeting Heck’s skittish gaze, and smiling comfortingly. He seemed to loosen up, and I deduced that the stress came not from being found out as guilty, but merely from being in court in the first place. My eyes scanned the public. With my next question, I hoped to lead them to the answer as one might lead a mule to water. I sat up.  
“Sheriff, you say she was mighty banged up. In what way?”  
“Well-” I sensed he was about to go off on a nervous ramble, which would not have helped anyone.  
“Just describe her injuries, Heck.”  
“Well, she was beaten around the head. There was already bruises comin’ on her arms, and it happened about thirty minutes before-”   
“How do you know?” His head jerked up, and he offered me an apologetic grin.  
“Sorry, that’s what they said. Anyway, she was pretty bruised up when I got there, and she had a black eye comin’.”  
Here was something I could latch onto. I said, “Which eye?”  
Heck furrowed his brows, running his hand through his hair as though his memory was something tactile that he could pull out of his mind.  
“Let’s see,” he said, tone soft, then lifted his eyes to meet mine, gaze filled with a curiosity apropos of nothing. I tilted my head gently.   
“Can’t you remember?” I asked. He pointed at an invisible person in front of him, visualizing that night and the girl.  
After a brief hesitation, he said, “Her left.”   
I knew it was wrong, because if it wasn’t my theory would be wrong, and my theories were always, always correct.  
“Wait a minute, Sheriff,” I said, “Was it her left facing you or her left looking the same way you were?”  
“Oh, yes, that’d make it her right. It was her right eye, Mr. Finch. I remember now, she was bunged up on that side of her face…” Heck raised his head once more, eyes alight with realization. He turned to look at Tom Robinson’s crippled left arm. The Jury seemed to follow his gaze, and satisfaction raced through me. I stood up to grab the court’s attention.  
“Sheriff, please repeat what you said.”  
“I was her right eye, I said.”  
“No…” I walked towards the court reporter’s desk, and bent down to the hand that was in the process of hastily scrawling the conversation on a pad. It stopped, and the court reporter said, “Mr. Finch. I remember now she was bunged up on that side of her face.” I looked up at the Judge, my eyes glittering with gratification.   
“Which side again, Heck?”  
“The right side, Mr. Finch, but she had more bruises- you wanta hear about ‘em?” Came the eager reply. I paused, wondering if being more direct would benefit me, or if it would be the cause of my downfall. Deciding against it, I motioned for him to go ahead, “Yes, what were her other injuries?” Heck’s answer was rather predictable, and as he spoke I met Tom Robinson’s eyes, seeing the glee I felt echoed there. Heck’s inclusion of the correct side of her face was something unexpected but warmly appreciated.   
“...her arms were bruised, and she showed me her neck. There were definite finger marks on her gullet-” I snapped to attention.  
“All around her throat? At the back of her neck?”  
“I’d say they were all around, Mr. Finch.”  
“You would?”  
“Yes sir, she had a small throat, anybody could’a reached around it with-” I suppressed a sigh, and interrupted dryly,   
“Just answer the question yes or no, please, Sheriff.” Heck fell silent, expression abashed. He had told us all that he could. I nodded at the circuit solicitor, who shook his head at Judge Taylor, who motioned for Heck to step down from the witness stand. Heck did so stiffly, clearly relieved that he was no longer needed. I sat down again in my chair. My languid posture dissolved into alertness as the clerk called forth the next witness.  
“... Robert E. Lee Ewell!” The man in question rose, and swaggered to the stand. His self-assured demeanor felt iniquitous when one compared it to the situation he was in and the crimes he had committed. When he took the oath, he raised his left arm. His hands were big, big enough to wrap around his daughter’s neck in grip strong enough to leave bruises. I knew he was guilty. Tom Robinson knew he was guilty. He knew he was guilty. Now we just had to make sure the Jury knew as well. I blinked wearily, and shuffled the papers on my desk. Time to make this man pay.


End file.
